LESLIE EPSTEIN
41
the gangway and onto the carpet. They were laughing, most of them, as
if relieved to be on the ground. Even the solitary travelers seemed to be
smiling at some private joke.
Stanley came out of the tunnel. His mouth was set and his skin
looked green, as if he had been sick on the plane. I always called him
Pear Shape, after the Dick Tracy character that I followed in the comics.
Betty and Lotte came next, arms linked, just as they had been in the
hearing room. The next thing I knew Bartie was running the length of
the carpet. "I saw you up in the air!" he shouted. "I saw your hat!"
Indeed she wore a li ght brown hat with a dark brown feather. She knelt,
holding her arms out. The light from the f1ashlamps washed over her
like water. Everyone was shouting, wanting to know what she thought
of the hearing and whether she had heard that her husband had been
suspended by the studio and if the family was go ing to issue an apology.
By way of reply she said, "Do you know my son Barton? He's the
younger one. Just look at these curls! Did you ever see anything like
them? And the blue in his beautiful blue eyes ! Oh, this is my fine big
boy!" She put both arms around him and kissed him on the cheeks and
on the forehead. She wasn't done speaking:
"And so talented! I used to think he'd be a painter. He did such pretty
drawings. But nowadays he goes up to his room and stays there for
hours!
Do you know what he's doing? Writing! Such wonderful stories.
They make me cry.
I'll
be happy
to
give the press a statement. Jack
Warner may think he has si lenced my husband, but the real writer is
going to be my son !"
The trouble was, no one was listening. That was because Norman
had emerged from the gangway. The crowd surged toward him. The
stanchions went over, pulling the ropes along with them. Betty gave a
shriek. I saw Stanley turn and try to make his way back to his friend. A
policeman began to wade through the throng. I followed him until I
could break through to where Norman was standing. He crouched
upon seeing me and held up his hands. This was a regular greeting: 1
threw punches and he, once a champion bantamweight at Penn State,
expertly blocked everyone . The crowd stepped back as I swung away.
My fists sp latted against his open palms. We both were grinning.
"You were amazing!" I told him, puffing already. "You almost fooled
me. Except [ knew you were no fink. You showed them up. Now the
whole country knows."
"You want to fight, eh? Eh?" He seized my fists and, as if perform–
ing some new form of jujitsu, bent my punches back toward my face.
